"ALMA."

Wairarapa Standard, Volume XX, Issue 2070, 20 May 1887, Page 1 (Supplement)

"ALMA."

As Obi«ixal Ar.'TRAUAX Story, BY HAROLD STEPHEN*. E-q.. M.P. OF SEW soriil WALTS. . (AH Rr*,rrn y.) CHAPTER XL! 11. - (Continued. ) “Ay—now and at any time I" replied MC.nkle, defiantly. “Do yer warst I And get on: of th:j, or revolver or no, I'll smash ye where ye Eland 1" As be laid this, the overseer walked menacingly forward, and Stephen Tredegar was forced to make a somewhat ignominious retreat through! the iaih-window which stood open at bis side. He quickly joined Johnson, and they drove off together. M Corkle flood in the verandah, thoughtfully watching them, until they disappeared from view among the treee ; then he walked hastily into the breakfast room, where he found Alma engaged in relating the events of the interview to Mrs. M'CorUe and Saaie. ■■ Toting leddy.’ he said, taking a seat, mechanically, “ we’re in abool as nice a fix as I would wish to see.’’ “ How can that be 7" asked Mrs. M Corkle, quickly. -■ nsod yer tongue, Martha, yon know nsetting abool it. Miss Alma Tredegar, yer nnote says yet a thief.’’ “A what?" exclaimed Alma, her face aflame with indignation. “He says that yon, and that young woman"—pointing to .Susie—" stole a buggy and horses, an’ he’s gann to tak’ oot a warrant for your arrest." Alma tureen paie. Was it possible that •be had unwittingly laid herself open to this eharge? She explained the ease to Mr, MCirkla, and asked hie advice. “ Aweel," be said, after some consideration—“Pm no sure they can sustain the ebairge, as the boggy was thesre for your use, but my advice is. rin awa I"

“Bun awsy? Where shall 1 go?" A haunted look came over the girl's face aa the said this, which waa painful to witness. “ I m jest gauo to order oat buggy and three horses to be got ready," said Mr. M Corkle. “Do you and the girl pack op, and we 11 stairt aa suae aa we can." •‘Where for?’ asked Mrs. MCorkle, anxiously, and placing her arm affectionately around Aims'* waist. ** For Melbourne. They ecoondrela will come here first, and then try the Sydney toad, we shall bate a good stairt, as' they’ll never catch us if we go to Melbourne by way of A'bnry. Ive been over the road many a time wi sheep an’ cattle —it's no far short of (out hundred mile, but we can do it in ten days easily. In Melbourne, we’ll goto Mr. Harvey, Sir Charles North's agent, and he'll arrange tor you to go to England. We shall be in Meloourne before yet uncle—the dom •coondrel! the Lorrd forgive the tors warin’l 1 aay, we shall be there before they coaid get there anyhow, even if they found out where we were gsun. Shall it be so ?’’ “ Oh. yes, yes!' exclaimed Alma. "I’m so thsnkful to you, Mr. M Corkle, and so sorry to give you so much trouble.” “Trouble dear?” said Mrs. M'Corkle. “It’s no trouble to him—he's thinking already of the tine spree he'll have in Meloourne." Mr. M Corkle smiled grimly and went out, evidently rather relishing the accusation, and then Alma and busied themselves in preparing for the journey. Tbs girls had not much to do, and were quite reidy by the time the buggy made its anpearanc}. Alma took a loving farewell of Mrs. M C orkle, who. notwi;hatanding their short acquaintance, bad already found a place in her heart, and, after kissing Sandy and Duncan, took her seat by the side of Mr. M‘Corkle, whilst Susie was accommodated behind with the lucgage, amongst which was a formidable hamper of provisions, and a small tent; fur it was quite possible that they wou’.-t be compelled to camp out fora night or two. “May good fortune attend you I 1 exclaimed Mr*. Mt'orkle, as they drove off, then she sat 'town on an old verandah chair, and—for she was a dame of the ancient school—buried her head in her apron and wept, whilst Sandy and Duncan howled for sympathy, and the dogs exhibited their uneasiness by walking around her, and scratching her dress to attract attention.

tr.f .’files; after that they settled down to a i f . ‘.'lt, trot, which carried them over I i! i rr. end at the rate of eigbt]miles an hour; j the overseer calculated they . . ' -'-;iy be able to maintain tor the whole distance. i :lrsi night the travellers passed in a r -i -c inn. at out fifty miles distant from t ..ti -n, hut the next evening they were i not so fortunate, and were compelled to camp cat. Ibis the girls regarded as great fun—better than any picnic. Mr. M’Corkle selected, as tbeir camping-ground, a clump of trees, some hundred yards off the track, and rear to a large water-hole, from which an immense fleck of black duck, wood duck, teal, widoeon. and other water fowl arose as th >y approached. The horses were soon taken out, hobbled, and turned loose, and then the overseer pro--0 edr I to pitch the tent, whilst .Susie lit a (>• and Alma proceeded to unpack the provisions. 1 ii-.-y enjoyed a merry suppers, and soon af'er .vards turned in for the night, the girls -1.-epirg in tiie tent upon couches of fern lee.vfg covered with blankets, and Mr. M Corkle camping by the tire under shelter of the buggy. It was autumn time, and the nights were growing cold, but all were too faticued and too well wrapped up to suffer, and they slept well, notwithstanding the wailing of the curlew, the hooting of owls and roopokes, and the thousand unknown sounds which trouble the sleeper in the busb. At sunrise ail were astir, and, after a good breakfast, they proceeded on tbeir jonrney, the horses having been found close te the camp, as Mr. M'Corkle had predicted they would be, but, before leaving the waterhofe, that gentleman, who never travelled without a gun. shot a couple of black duck, which he promised to dress for dinner the next day himself, as there was no inn on the route at which they could bait, and, to drive oft the road to a station wonld be a waste of time that they could not afford. Ou the fourth night they had calculated to reach Albury, but M'Corkle feared to press the horses, and, therefore, a halt was made some forty miles on the Sydney aide of that township. They bad made tbeir camp, and were busily engaged in preparing the supper, when the ominous cry of “ Bail up 1” was heard, and four masked figures emerged from the shadows of the trees. The girls screamed, and the overseer involuntarily stretched out his hand to seize the gun, which lay on the grass by bis side; but withdrew it with a sigh, as he remembered bow futile and how dangerous resistance would be under the circnmstanoss. Just then the fire flashed up, and its full i light beamed on the face of Snsie, who bad ■ not yet arisen from bet knees, having been surprised in the act of feeding the blaze I with bark and dried twigs. { One of the bushrangers muttered a stifled ejaculation, and hurriedly drew his comrades aside. A whispered conversation took place, , and then they disappeared as suddenly as : the; had come, a voice crying as they left, > " Good night, ladies, it was only a lark—yon need not be flighted. | “ Some bosh larrikins,” grumbled tbs i overseer, who was, nevertheless, imrnen* | sely relieved. I " It was a very poor joke,” said Alma. “ I wonder that full grown men are not ashamed I to frighten girle—Why I what ie the matter, Susie?” Susie was trembling and sobbing convulsively, with her face buried in her bands. I She looked up ss Alma spoke, and strove to i smile, but the effort was a failure, and, with a low moan, she flung herself on the ground, burying her lace in the grass. “ Hysterics,” said Mr. M'Corkle, sententiously, whilst Alma ran to the girl. “ Loosen her dress, whilst I go for some water,” As be walked away, Susie raised her bead and whispered, " It was Bill I” “ What! ” exclaimed Alma. “ Hush, miss I For the love of heaven don't let Mr. M'Corkle know 1 It was my brother Bill, be has joined the bushrangers. Ohwhat shall I do 7 What shall I do?” Here Susie broke out crying again, whilst Alma did her best to soothe her, telling her that it was impossible—that her brother was many miles away, and that she must be mistaken. “ Do you think I don’t know my own brother's voice ?” asked Susie. “ It was him sure enough. Besides, he said he was going to Piney Range, and that isn’t more than twenty miles from Albury, I believe. But, miss, he’ll be sure to come back to see me—very likely he’s watching me now. Suppose you talk to Mr. M'Corkle, whilst I walk off into the bush ? I'll manage so that he won’t notice it, whilst hs's making the tea; for I’ll say I'ra too ill to be doing anything, and then I’ll slip away whilst he is busy.” “ I'll try to engage his attention,” replied Alma. “ But, oh, Susie 1 it it is your brother, do beg of him to give up this vicious life.” “ I will mies—be sure I will 1” “See—tell him to go to Mr. Lasoolles' station, and say I sent him there to gat work. I will speak to Mr. M'Corkle abont him, and write to Mrs. M'Corkle—they will not refuse to employ him if I wish it. And you may tell him that I am going to England, and then I shall return sooiT, as I am going to ba married to Mr. Harry Lascelles. Tell him also that you are going with me, and that, when we come back, we will send for your mother and find her something to do also." Sash's fervent speeoh of thanks was interrupted by the return of the overseer, and Alma at once told him that the girl had recovered, but that she was still too nervous to do anything, so that he would have to undertake the preparation of the supper. This Mr. M'Corkle, who prided himself upon his talents as a cook, willingly undertook to do, and Alma seated herself by the fire, and began a series of questions which, together with his work, completely engrossed the worthy gentleman’s attention, so that Susie was able to slip away unnoticed. She returned just as the meal was ready, and, by a significant smile, informed Alma that her mission had been successful. Later on she gave full particulars of the interview, when they had retired (or the night, and the snoring of Mr. M'Corkle betokened bis temporary emancipation fipm the care and troubles of this woild. “ Bill swears be will do as you wish, miss,” she said, in conclusion, “and he sends his respects and bis very best thanks for your kindness. ” ” I would do more than that for your sake, Susie,” said Alma. “ Oh. I know you would, miss I And me and Bill would both lay down our lives (or yon, and welcome 1 But, miss, I’d nigh forgotten—Bill says that Johnson is a reg’lat bad lot, and that he’s in with the worst gang of roughs in the country. Bill is going to look after him, and let ns know where he goes. 1 give him Mr, Harvey’s address, miss, to write to. Was that right ?” '■ Yes,” replied Alma, “ And now go to sleep like a good girl, for it is very late, and 1 am dreadfully tired. What you say about Mr. Johnson does not surprise me in the | least, I always felt sure that he was not an | honest man. Good night—we ought to be up very early to-morrow, for Mr. M'Corkle wants to gel to Albury by mid-day.” Nothing remarkable occurred daring the I remainder of the journey, which was safely accomplished within the time predicted by the overseer, who had the pleasure of rattling along the road to Sooth Yarta as merrily as if bis team bad only just left (heir stables.

CHAPTER L. trnuin> to MBLcorsn, Th* first day of this journey passed of! without any incidents worthy of record. Cndar the exhilarating influence of a genial ■On, and quick motion, Alma soon regained bar cheerfulness, and completely wou the heart of the hard Scotchman,who though the had never met such an innocent little *** l iTt|l. as he mentally phrased it, in his Kla Mi. Laseelles.like most well-to-do squatters took gnat interest in breeding, and bis *osh ot all kinds were first class. The three kaasea, driven onicorn fashion, which Mr. M'Ooskle had aeleoted for the jonrney, were fWag, sad nearly thoroughbred, and re£Mdao slight exereie ot strength and skill • ■••• ■ scdtr, doriag the lint ten or

Of Alma’s reception by Mr. Harvey, we will speak later on, as it is time now to see how the Professor fared in his efforts to set the law in motion against the girls.

CHAPTER LI. BktlXV VP. A singular piece of good luck befel the Professor and his associate, Mr. Johnson. On their return from Bathurst, they proceeded at once to lay an information against Alma Tredegar and Susie Brown, charging them with stealing a buggy and a pair of horses. A long delay occurred before a warrant, for the arrest of the two girls, could be procured ; but at length all preliminaries were concluded, and a constable was about to start for Mr. Liscelles’ station, in company with the Professor and Johnson, when a trooper rode up to the police barracks. This man halted for a minute to speak to the other constable, and asked him whither he was bound. '-' Im off to the Multifiora station,” he replied, “ to arrest two girls for horse-stealing who are staying there with Mr. M'Corkle.” “By George, it must be the same girls I met some hours ago driving along the Car-cour-road," exclaimed the trooper. “That is in the direction of Albury, is it not ?” asked the Professor, who had heard the remark. “ Yes.” “ Then they are bound there, hoping to get to Melbourne overland, without being discovered,” exclaimed the Professor. “I thought they would not wait for us.” A short consultation ensued with the Superintendent of Police, and the constable was ordered to track them along the road which led to Melbourne, and Johnson and the Professor, who had purchased horses in Bathurst, set out with him. They got wind of (he fugitives at the inn where they had passed the night, but found that their chances of overtaking them were but small, Mr. M'Corkle’s party was then, at least, six hours journey ahead, and, apparently, provided with superior horses ; still (be constable did not despair,calculating upon obtaining one or (wo changes of horses on the road, whilst there was always the chance of some accident occurring to the buggy. They rode on as rapidly as possible, and did succeed in changing horses; so that they did not lose ground, although they had not gained anything when, on the fourth day, they arrived at the spot where the other party had met the bushrangers. Here they dismounted, and made a hasty lunch, nsing, to boil water for their tea, the embers of (be fire which had been left smouldering by the pursued. Suddenly they also were saluted by the cry of “ Bail up 1” and the same four masked men, who bad startled the girls on the previous evening, emerged from the scrub, and covered the party with tbeir guns. Resistance was impossible, for with culpable carelessness, the trooper had left his pistols in bis saddle-holsters, whilst his carbine stood against a tree, some distance off. Both Johnson and the Professor were provided with revolvers, bat neither thought of producing them until it was too late. They were made to hold up their hands> under cover of the gnns of three of the bushrangers, whilst the fourth searched themStrange to say, no attempt was made to deprive them of their watches or money, but they were disarmed, and then the constable was made to disrobe and dress himself in the clothes of one of the bushrangers, who in turn assumed bis uniform. The bushrangers restored bis personal property to the constable, bat retained the warrant (or the apprehension of the girls, and they finally made off with (he horses, having previously, however, stripped the boots from the feet of the three men. This was Bill Brown’s last act of bushranging, and his return (or the kindness shown him by Alma. He and bis party had broken np their camp that morning, and ridden on to the main road, with the express purpose of sticking up Johnson and the Professor, should they have the good fortune to meet with them.

guarded for us to have a chance. Above all, we must hurry to England. The case will come on for trial very soon.” “And that’s all yon care about—but I tell you, once for all, I’m not going into the witness-box until I’m married to that girl.” “ You have my bond for ten thousand pounds, payable when I get the property, that ought to be enough for you." “ But itlaint—l’ve got money enough of my own. There’s nigh fourteen thousand pounds in that valise, without including some hundtedsl’ve got in my pocket.” “ You don't mean to say that you are such an ass as to carry fourteen thousand pounds about with you in a common travelling valise?” exclaimed the the Professor. “ It’s right enough—all in circular notes on London and Liverpool banks, only negotiable by myself. I’ll show you”—here Mr. Johnson unstrapped his valise, and proceeded to make search lor his pocket-book. Presently he started np and exclaimed: “ I bad forgotten. I left it at home in the pocket of the coat I wore the evening before we left.” “ That was very careless of you,” remarked the Professor. “ How do you know that your pockets may not be turned out by that old convict we left in charge?” 11 1 took care of that. I bundled all my things into my chest, which has a patent lock, and can only be opened by breaking the lid.” “ Well, what do you say 7” asked the Professor. “ Shall we tell the constable we withdraw the charge, and then return home? “ I suppose so !” exclaimed Johnson. “ It’s infernal bard lines that we should have this tramp for nothing.” “ That can’t be helped now. I’ll tell the people that we will start by the ooaoh this evening, and book seats. We shall have to go on to Sydney, it will be better than riding.” “ I should think so I” exclaimed Johnson. “ I declare that every bone in my body is aching, and my feet are so sore and swollen I couldn’t get on a pair of boots. Bnt you might as well book a seat for the constable also—it wouldn’t do to leave him behind.” On reaching Sydney, they took leave of the constable, and gave him a letter for the Superintendent of Police at Bathurst, in which they begged to withdraw the charge, as circumstances had since come to their knowledge which convinced them that it could not be sustained. They then set off, without delay, for the Blue Mountains. Everything about the plaoe seemed exactly as they had left it, but they found that the buggy and horses had been brought back by a man in the employ of Mr. Lascelles; who, indeed, had set out for the purpose prior to their arrival at the station, and bad passed them on the road without being perceived, owing to his having taken a short cut through the bush. Tiiey now proceeded to pack up, and the Professor was thus busily engaged when Johnson burst into his room with the announcement (hat the pocket-book wae missing. “Are you sure?” asked the Professor, anxiously. “ Dead certain—l’ve looked everywhere. Good heavens I it is enough to drive a man mad 1” “ Did not you say that the money was all in bank drafts or circular notes on English banks?” asked the Professor. “Yes." “ Then it is not lost. When we get to Sydney it will be easy to inform the bank (here, and get them to stop payment of (he notes until you arrive. It may cause some delay, but you need not be alarmed about it.” Johnson was somewhat pacified, but still very anxious, lor the pooket-book contained, not only money, but certain private memoranda, and also the Professor’s bond for ten pounds. He kept this to himself, however, and returned to his packing, determining not to leave the Blue Mountains without making a thorough search about the whole house and grounds. We need not tarry with these gentlemen any longer. The pocket-book was not found, but the manager of the bank which had issued the notes, undertook to prevent their payment, and assured Johnson that by no possibility could the money be obtained before hia letters arrived, as no vessel had loft in the interum, and none could arrive in England before the outgoing mailsteamer. Fearing discovery and detection at Melbourne, they did not dare to take passage by the mail-boat, and were compelled, therefore, to wait two or three weeks in Sydney until a vessel sailed direct for an English port. At last, however, they found themselves on the high seas in a barque bound for Liverpool via the Cape of Good Hope.

Bill bad regarded this as a remote contingency, but noticing the smoke of their firei he had ridden up to reconnoitre, and, to his intense surprise, found his prey ready at hand. He lost not a moment in warning his companions, and the result has been told. The Professor and his party was now in a very awkward predicament, their horses were gone, the warrant was gone, and, above all, they were shoeless. Now to be without shoes, to a man who had never walked barefooted in his life, is to be deprived of the means of locomotion. They were fully forty miles distant from Albury, and without the slightest hope of obtaining assistance until they reached the township. Bill Brown had calculated well, the pursuit was over, as far as any hope of overtaking the fugitives before they reached Melbourne was concerned. It was noon on the third day before they reached Albury, which (hey entered in a pitiable condition, halt starved, and with bleeding feet. Here a fresh difficulty arose, the constable had no means of proving his position'in the force. It was t' ne that a man of his name waa employed in Bathurst, but none of the Albury police knew him, and his yarn was almost incredible. Bushrangers would never have refused to take money and jewellery—the officer in charge bluntly refused to believe a word of it. Bill Brown had calculated upon just this result. Nothing therefore could be done until a reply was received from Bathurst to a communication which was at once forwarded by the constable to his chief. But the Professor and Johnson bad lost all interest in the matter. To Melbourne they dared not venture to go, and they did not care to press the warrant, for its issue had not been secured without a little perjury. It had been necessary that the owner of the buggy and horses should lay the information, and Johnson had made oath that be stood in that position —whereas, in point of fact, they were the property of the man from whom the professor had leased the place in the Blue Monntains- “ My notion is," eaid the Professor, “ that we had better abandon this prosecution business, and make our way back to Sydney, and take ship for the old country.” “ Without the gal ?” asked Johnson. They were alone, having got rid of the constable for the time, by sending him on an errand to the post-office. " She will make straight lor England, and, if there is anything at all to be done with her, it oan be done there, as well as here.” “ You take it mighty cool, I must say,” remarked Mr. Johnson. “It’s seen you don’t care a dump whether we collar her or not." “You mistake, my friend—l do care. But certainly we oan never stay to prosecute her, and, moreover, I don’t see what is to be gained by doing it.” “ Didn’t we agree that we’d try to induce her to give way, and consent to marry me, by offering to give np the prosecution if she did ?” “ I never thought much of that chance,” replied the Professor. “To tell you the truth, I looked upon it as a ease in which forcible abduction was the only remedy.” “ Then why not wait and try it ?" “ And risk trouble about the ownership ot the buggy? Besides,she would get bail and be with M'Corkle, and too strongly 524

CHAPTER LIL ALMA AKB AIMEE. Mr. M'Corkle pulled up his team in slash ing style at the garden gate of the house, c which he had been directed by a local tradesman, as that occupied by Mr. Harvey; but a placard bearing the ominous words “ To Ret, whieh appeared in one ol the windows, announced that their journey was not yet at an end. “What’s to be done now?” he asked, turning to Alma, with a look of annoyance on his rugged face. “Suppose you enquire next door—very likely the people will be able to tell us where Mr. Harvey has gone. See 1 there is a young lady in the garden, let me ask her. ’ Alma did not wait for an assent, but jumped lightly to the ground and opened tne wicket, “Could you oblige me by telling me where we can find Mr. Harvey ? she asked of a little brown girl who was plucking a nosegay. “ Mr. Harvey ?” repeated the girl interrogatively. “ Mali mon Dieu! Tell to me—is it not that you are Alma Tredegar ? “ That is mylname,” replied Alma,unutterably astonished at being thus recognised by a stranger, “I knew it 1" exclaimed the other, throwing aside the flowers she had gathered, and claping her hands joyfully. “1 WJJ 80 B*>d to see you 1” Here she actually threw her arms around our heroine, and kissed her on both cheeks. . , . Alma was petrified with astonishment. Was the child mad ? What was the meaning of this affectionate greeting 7 She stammered, gently extricating herael! from the others embrace. “ You must excuse mo 1 1 "You do not know me?” interrupted the girl with a merry laugh, " Bnt I know you very well, my dear —I have seen your portrait, it is perhaps a hundred times—oh, yes, I know you very well indeed 1 “My portrait?” asked Alma. “Yes-in a locket on the watoh-ohain ol Dart, Ahal Now you understand? " Do you know my brother Dart ? “ My name is Aimee Brantome, and I have the honor to be of Mr. Dart Tredegar.” Aimee concluded with a demure curtsey, and a sly glance through her long eye lashes at the sister of her lover, who stood for a moment perplexed, and, in her turn, drew the little thing into her embrace, and kissed her warmly, With that little lady, Mr. M'Corkle w»s,

however, delighted beyond measure. Her beauty was so new to him—so bizarre so wondrously attractive, that he found it almost impossible to avoid looking at her, and his admiration was so openly expressed that none could fail to notice it, whilst Aimoe audaciously traded upon it, launching glances at him from under her long eyelashes which played sad havoc with the heart which was the legal property of Mrs. M'Corkle. The dinner was another trouble to the overseer. The numerous courses and strange dishes bewildered him, and he ate mechanically of everything that was offered him, mentally praying that ha might not be deluded into devouring frogs or other unclean things. The climax was reached when be was helped to a dish which he was informed was an imitation of the West Indian " pepper pot,” and which Madame Brantome, especially, seemed to enjoy amazingly. He took one mouthful, and with difficulty stifled a scream. A spoonful of mustard was nothing to it—it was so excruciatingly hot that he firmly believed that it blistered his tongue. After that, he declined to partake of anything more, and did not recover his equanimity until be bad imbibed a bumper of “ grog” compiled after the Fnineh.fashion. When the party adjourned to the drawingroom, Aimee sang, and, this time, Alma was as much astounded as Mr. M'Corkle, who sat open-mouthed and breathless, listening, as if he were hearing the song of the angel lerafel, of whom Edgar Allan Poe says, “None sing so wildly well ae (he angel Israfel.” Words failed Mr. M'Corkle to express his satisfaction at this performance, but he looked at Aimee with a mournful imploring eye, from which one huge tear slowly rolled down his nose, till it (ell like a bead on the carpet, and even the merry songstress could not find it in her heart to smile. Later in the evening a discussion took place as to Alma’s future movements. “ She mann gang awa’ to Lunnon without delay,” said Mr. M'Corkle. “ They sooondrela 'ull be doon npon her again, and anyway, her proper place is with her brithcr.” " I am of the same opinion,” said Mr. Haivey. " A steamer will start in a few days, and she ongbt to go by her. Shall I take a passage for you, Miss Tredegar ? 1 have no doubt about being able to find some lady to take care of you.” “ Let us go also, papa,” said Aimee, imploringly. " I am so glad I” she said, holding Aimao’s hands affectionately. " You will be my sister now—l shall love you so dearly, for, you know, I never bad a sister before.” “ Nx mi non plus," said Aimee. “ I never have not even so much as a brother, and you have the best brother in the world.” Hers a voice from the road was heard to exclaim: “WullyeDO stan’ still?” and Alma started, guiltily—she had quite forgotten Mr. M'Corkle and her errand. “Tell me, dear,” she asked of Aimee, “what has become of Mr. Harvey 7” “ He lodges by u«,” was the reply. “ Ho could not live in the house all alone, so he proposed to go to a hotel, but papa said,* Why not come to us ?' and he did come.” "Then I suppose we will have to find lodgings somewhere, ” said Alma. “ And wherefore, when there is plenty of room here 7 That is for you and your maid—the girl with you is your maid, is it not?” “Yes, dear, but we could not think of troubling you.” “ Eh 1 You will make more trouble if you do not go inside at once,” said Aimee, imperiously. " I will tell your maid and the driver. Bat who is he? Is he a gentleman 7” " He is a true gentleman, indeed,” replied Alma. “ He is the overseer at Mr. Lascelles’ station, and bis name is M'Corkle.” “ What a fanny name I” exclaimed Aimee. “ I will ask him to come inside,” which she accordingly did. "1 canna leave the horses, mum,” replied the overseer with an admiring glance at the little beauty. “ Belas I And we have no man to bold them 1 But oannot you take them to a stable and then dome back?” “ We are to etop here, Mr. M'Corkle," said Alma, who had joined Aimee by this time. “ This is Miss Aimee Brantome, and she insists that I shall etay here, ae Mr. Harvey is living here.” " It is a great pity we are not able to give you a chamber also, sir,” said Aimee, but you can get one at the hotel and come here to meals.” Mr. M'Corkle thanked the young lady, and promised that he would, at leaet, accept her invitation for that evening, and then, after Susie had alighted, he drove away, leaving the girls to carry in (he luggage, as be dared not loose the reins. Aimee ushered her newly found friend into a pretty little bedroom, looking out on the garden, which, she said, should be ber’s in future. “ But surely I shall be dispossessing some body,” remonstrated Alma. “ Pat du tout— not at all,” replied Aimee. “ This chamber is for friends always. Many times papa brings home friends to dinner, and then they muet etop (or the night, because it is not so easy to get back to town; so we have two guest chambers, and one is occupied by Mr. Harvey, whilst this is for you. For your maid we will find a bed in the servant's room. “ And do you make all these arrangements without reference to your mamma ?” asked Alma, who had learned that there was a Madame Brantome, bnt had not yet made the acquaintance of that lady. “ Machcre," replied Aimee, “ mama, in this climate, is as if she were not. It is cold, she will not leave the sofa, so upon ms is the business of the bouse, and I do as I like. En tout cas it comes to the same, because mama is so very much in love with Dart, that she is sure to desire - the society of his sister. But come, we will go to the garden, where there is an arbor, and you shall have a cup of tea, and tell to me all about yourself, and how it happens that yon are travelling about the country with your knight of the rueful countenance, Senor Don Quixote de la M'Corkle." After a long and confidential chat in the arbor, the girls adjourned to the drawingroom, and Alma was presented to Madame Brantome, who received her, as the French say, with effusion, and even so far forgot her langour, as to assume a sitting position, whilst she kissed the girl, and bade her welcome. “(You spik French 7” asked Madame Brantome, anxiously. “Yes madame,” replied Alma, in that language ; “ but 1 am afraid you will find my accent detestable, as I learned French in Germany from a German.” “We will soon remedy that, my dear. You shall talk here always French, tor even Mr. Harvey can epeak it pretty well, having been many times in Paris on business. But, tell me how about yourself 7” “ And I will run away,” said Aimee. “ I have heard all the adventures myself, and it becomes desirable that I should attend to the dinner, because we have to entertain the worthy Don Quixote, and it is necessary that we should make a good impression.” So saying, with a merry laugh, the young girl vanished, leaving Alma to tell her tale for the second time. Madame Brantome was an admirable listener, reclining lazily on the sofa—with that artistic arrangement of drapery which

would be impossible for an English woman —she heard and thoroughly enjoyed the exciting narrative, interjecting at times an ejaculation which proved her interest and attention. Messieurs Brantome and Harvey returned together, towards sundown, and our heroine was of necessity compelled to go over tha same ground again for their behoof; but the task was pleasant, for she was amongst friends, of whose sympathy she felt assured, and who plainly showed that they weie prepared to love her. At length the worthy M'Corkle arrived, and was presented in due form. Here a sad thing happened, which, for a time, threatened to destroy the harmony of the evening. The impressionable Monsieur Brantome bad wept over Alma’s woes, and vowed vengeance on her persecutors. When he beheld the hero who had rescued her from the clutches of those infamous federal*, Johnson and the Professor, he received him with enthusiasm, and, in the exuberance of his emotion, he clasped the gaunt Scotchman in hie arms, and kissed him on either cheek. This outrageous proceeding completely annihilated Mr. M'Corkle. He extricated him self from the embrace of the little Frenchman as hastily as he dared, and sank into a seat, completely overpowered, and blushing as he had never blushed before in his life. Mr. Harvey laughed boisterously, and Alma could not help smiling, but the others seemed somewhat bewildered, till, at last, Aimee remembered that such greetings were not usual amongst Englishman, and explained the position to her father. “Par cxemple I” exclaimed Monsieur Brantome, when be was made to understand that his kieses had embarrassed his guest. Then turning to Mr. M’Corkle he said“ 1 demand of you a sousand pardon, my dear— I ’ave forget zat you ozzers yon kiss only ze females—you mos forgif me. Ve also, ve kiss ze females, bote it ees of anozzer fashion comone ca," ha added, turning to Alma, and kissing her on the forehead, a proceeding which caused renewed laughter, and occasioned a seasonable diversion, at the expense of our heroine. But Mr.M'Corkle was seriously scandalised. Ho had a truly national distaste for foreigners and “papishere,’’and, from thenceforth, he became nervously apprehensive of some fresh outrage; so that, on each occasion that Monsieur Brantome approached him, he held himself on guard, usually interposing a chair between them, or dodging round the table—a series of manoeuvres which caused infinite amusement to Aimee. Tn he rnhluni,,/.) Ben Mosclj’s Escape; BY ALFRED BALCH. 11 You kin talk ov yer pet critters ez much ez ye like,” said old Ben Mosely, “ Grizzly Ben,” as be was generally called, ever since he had the great hand to hand fight with a sbe-bear whose cubs he had stolen; “ but far me, I never had no such good lack with nothin’ ez I bad long ov a crow I tamed when 1 wer’ a boy. Leastwise, 1 wer’ a sizeable lad like 'bout twenty-two, an’ I thought I wet’ 'bout a hundred, fur ez knowin’ things went. Same ez boys ginet’ly, I reckoned 1 knowed a heap site more’n my old dad. Yon see, I’d bin on one Injun trail, an' I hadn’t got left when it came to countin’ scalps neither, so I Towed I wer’ some punkins an’ a lot on th’ vine. " In them days,” went on the old man, lighting hia pipe with a coal, “ I lived long o' dad, in Illinois, just long the western line. Injuns wer’ bad, pisen bad, too. an’ what settlers there was, bad t’ join in together far protection. 1 Regulators ’ they called the boys, an’ a Regulator all over wer’ I. We bad just our huntin’ snits for uniforms, but we all wore fox tails ’n our caps on p'rade days, Fourth of July an’ sioh; an' I tell you we looked fine. " In them days I wer’ dead gone on Molly Hutchins, old man Hutchins’s darter, ez lived at the Forks. It wer’ a good fifteen mile over t’ that ’ar place, but 1 reckon ez my hoes Davy—l gin him his name 'cause ov Davy Crockett —know that road the darkest kind ov night. Wish you boys c’u’ii ’a’ seen Davy; they don't grow no such bosses now, not but what I've got some fa’r critters 'n th’ corral, el so be ye want t’ trade. Davy wer' a sorrel, legs like a deer, ez th’ sayin' is, tho' I never see no deer half ez pretty. Well ribbed up, haunches ez could force their way thro’acanebrake, small head, big eyes, and big chest. Oh, I tell you, Davy wer’ a beauty, an’ no mistake. “ But this ain’t tellin’ you 'bout that crow. I got him when he war’ right small, oudn’t fly much. 1 named him Duke. He'd fly arter me an’ perch on my shoulder, an’ sometimes, when I wer’ cut tryin’ to strike a deer, that ar bird would make me want t’ swear, he’d keep up such a cawin’. But he wer’ monstrous ounnin’. He’d do the quarest things, an’ then look at you ez tho’ he ’spected you’d laugh at him; an', for me, I mos’ generally did. He’d steal anything he could find, an’ hide it, till sometimes I’d raise my rifle on him. Bless you! he'd come an'sit on the barrel, an’ 1 ’ll leave it out t’ any (air man if 1 could kill him then. •• Long back in '36, the Injuns on what wer’ then the Western border, wet 1 kind of bothersome. Thet’ weren’t any great wars, but little raids all the time, an’ these wer' great enough to them ez wer’ in the way. If I’m killed, it aint no satisfaction t’ me that a thousand men’s killed, too. Wa’al them redskins they Wer' a raidin' in bands like, an’ we’d hearn ’bout them, but we hadn’t seen none. Same time the Regulators wer’ meetin’ an’ drillin’, an’ some folks thought we wae goin’t’ have some fun. “ One day I’d left home ’n th’ arternoon, on Davy, an’, ov course, that ar Duke wer’ fiyin’ Tongside. I wer’ goin’ out t’ what we called the Oak perary—’cause why ther’ wae oaks ’n it—t’ see ef I couldn’t get a deer, or. mebbe two. Then I wer’ goin’ t’ old man Hutchins’s place, an’ I sorter reckoned ez how Molly an’ me would hev it fixed one way or t’other. Tell you the truth, I wer’ only goin’ arter deer t’ kinder make a ’souse t’ go thar, ’cause I wer’ powerful bashful like ’n those days, ’specially when it come t’ anything ’bout Molly. I certainly loved th’ gal, but I wer’ down ’shamed ef any one spoke ’bout it, or ez I s’posed noticed it. Men acts like geese sometimes. 1 don’t see no reason for reddenin’ ef a nice young feller wants t’ make a nice young gal his wife ; but, bless you, then I’d redden fast enough. Wa’al, 1 got out V the perary by nightfall, an’ had my supper—passol o’ cold beans 1 ’d brung along ; an’ I tethered Davy, an’ lay down 'n my blankets t’ sleep. 1 dozed off, an’ 1 dunno how long_ 1 slept, fur ’twas dark when I felt somethin’ peek, peek at me. It don’t take much to waken a border man, an’ 1 sat np. Thar wet’ Duke, oneasy ez a chestnut in the coals. " I dunno now any more’n I did then why that bird didn’t roost ez usual, but it ar a fact ez he waked me up. Wa’al, I sat up, more ’n half mad, an’ listened. What should I hear but talkin' off ’n the trees. You kin jnst bet I got up an’ scouted round a bit, an' fust thing I seen wer’ a band of red-skins with their war paint on. “ Boys, I wer’n’t a bit sleepy then. Back 1 went t’ where Davy wet’, pulled stake, an’ started fur old man Hutchins’s place at th’ corners, that bein’ the first house you come to. I thought I'd got away quietly, but I s’pose I must ’a’ made some noise, (ur I’d scarcely got into saddle an’ struck into a gallop than 1 seen halt a dozen o’ them Injnna come out ov the woods an’ make after me. I wer’n’t the least mite scared, ’cause I knowed no Injun pony could keep up with Davy, but 1 wer' puzzled what t’ do when I got t' the corners. ’Cause yon see, (hem Regulators ought t* lx told ez 1 knowed, but same time

I wer'n’t goto’ 1' leave Molly, not at no price. “ Ws’al I, rode on, an' ez I s’posed, them redskins wer’ left behind. I tell yon, Davy war' a hose, boya; he wer'n’t no kyuee male, he wer'B't. “ Bimebye I reached the ccrncra; it wer’ fifteen miles, bat there wer' a good moon t' ride by, an' I reckon it must ’a’ been 'boat three o’clock in the morning. I hammered at the door, an' presently 1 beam Bob Hotchins askin'; • Whose's that 7 ' Wa'al be let no in, an' then I hearn that the old man an' bis wife had gone t’ Tbom&sville, twenty miles away, the day before, an’ left only Molly an’ Hob. Wues luck, too, that wer’n’t bat one hoes 'n the corral. I made up my mind mighty quick we’d all pet t’ get outer that, an’ so I told Molly. So Bob be took the one boss, an’ Molly she got np on to Davy, an' I wal bed, “Meantime, them Injuns had just come right along, an' when they got t’ the house, reckonin' that scalps was worth more 'n hornin' hoases, they foliered oar trail. By boldin’ on t’ one ov the sterrups I found I could run pretty well, bat then Molly an’ ma could’nt keep up with Bob. So I told him t* ride on ahead an’ warn them Regulators ea fast ez be could, an' Molly an’ me would make the best ov oar way an’ reckoned we 4 come out all right. I told him el we wae hard pressed we'd go into Smith's Cave an* they could look fur ns tbar. So Bob arter wantin' l’ stay, finally left an' went on ahead. Molly, she rode on an' I ran long side, an' bimebye I felt that I’d had 'bout enough ov it. That is, cf I wer’t' do anv fightin’. I minded a good ron ez little ez the next man, but I didn't want more 'n five miles of it just afore a sharp fight. So wc went to Smith's Cave. This were a hols in the rocks, openin' on a kind of ledge, an' in it one man could, I raiiiy b’iieve, keep off fire hundred. They could only come at him one at a time, yon see. I got Molly in tbar an’ I turned Davy loose, an' then I piled up some stones fur covet an’ sat down. Waitin' fur them Injuns peared t’ me a powerful fine time t’ ask Molly that ar question I spoke ov, an’ wer’ just thinkin’ how I’d pat it, when she caught my arm an* says ; ' What’s that, Ben 7 ’ “ That wer' a redskin’s head, an' I didn't think no more ’bout the question. Nazi minute a shower of arrers struck agin tbs stones, an’ one went through my arm. That made me mad, an' I drawed a bead, an' next minute a yell told me I’d struck home* Molly pulled the arrer out* It weren't very long afore the redskins made a charge, bat 1 had an axe, an’ they got beaten back. Molly shot one ov ’em who wer’ just goin’ to’ sink s tommybswk in my head. At last they went back, an’l wer'mighty glad, I tell yon. I’d got out 'n two or three places, so Molly she tied np the cuts fur me. 11 wer' a long time then afore ws saw anything ov ’em, an’ I wet' hopin’ they'd gone off, tho' I knowed better. Suddenly they began to throw lighted bushes down from the top ov the rock nnto the ledge, an’ the moment I'd show myself they’d shoot a perfect cloud of arrere at me. 1 got four ov them pesky things in me. The cave wer’n't very deep, an’ it soon began to fill with smoke. Icings wer' gettin' serious, I tell yon. Not only the smoke, but it wer' gettin’ not, too, I made another rush, but the fire wer' too big fur met' push off, bothered ez I wer’ by them arrere. I’d got Molly lyin' down on the bottom ov the cave, to be ez much out of the smoke ez ehe could, an' I could hear them redskins outside yelling’, thinkin' we was 'bout played out. I’d promised Molly she'd never fall into their bands alive fur t' be an Injun slave, an’ I wet’ just gettin' my knife ready. I could hear her whisper; ‘ 1 aint afraid, Ben, ez it’s yon;' an’ it seemed t' ms ez tho' a feelin’ come into my heart ez how I'd kill her an’ then I’d go out where them Injuns were with my knife alone. 'Feared t' me ez I’d make 'em recollect that day ! " I gin Molly a kiss, an’ she kissed me, an* bid her faoe on my shoulder. I bad the knife, an' she said to me: “ Now, Ben I ’ “ Wa'al, I couldn't. I wer’ in a petfec' cold sweat. Once more Moll; raised her bead an' looked roe in the eyes, an’ said: ‘ I ain't afraid, dear.’ I picked up the knife, an'says : 1 Don’t look st me, Molly; ’so ehe shut her eyes, sn' 1 raised my hand. “Just then 1 hearn a crack, crack, an’ some yells, an’ then more cracks. I sprung t' the openin’, an' tbar wet’ them Regulators, foxtails in their, caps, an 1 everything first-rate. You kin bet I lit on my rifle, an’ 1 got a shot or two ez told afore them Injuns was cleared out. “ Do yon know I never did ask Molly that ar question I told yon ov ; but it weren't long afore we had a dance an' a weddin’; an', blest you, that weddin’ wer' mine. Ask the oly lady tbar, cf you don't believe me.”